Fake Christmas by Sue Kindon

I am not a silent poet

The first stone, as soldiers load
heavily weighted weapons
to defend their promised land.

Wailing Wall, Dome of the Rock,
Church of the Holy Sepulchre,
is nothing sacred?

A salvo of syllables,
and the prayer-settlements
launch rocket-boulders from borrowed ground.

You can dress it up,
in skull caps, chequered headscarves
or the president’s new clothes,

it was always about an out-of-favour tribe
wrong side of the barb-wire-words, denied a home.

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